I have fallen out of love with art.

Over the past few years, my interest had been waning, but I have recently found myself saying, on more than one occasion, that I’m simply not interested in art anymore. Perhaps I’m being dramatic, but two degrees and six years of Art History courses later, I’m not convinced that art and I have long-term potential.

Take my experience at the NEXT Art Fair, for example. It was a part of Artropolis, Art Chicago, or a hipster fashion show…I’m still not sure how they interrelate, but that’s beside the point. I attended because a great friend was in town for the event, representing her gallery at the fair. Once there, I knew that I should have been interested in seeing its contents. I likely should have taken mental note of artists and galleries of interest. I probably should not have located my friend, said hello, and gotten the hell out of Dodge. But I did.

My relationship with art can be summed up as follows: while I know we have chemistry together at times, our non-traditional courtship makes it really hard to commit. Our on-again, off-again shenanigans have made our friends skeptical of our longevity and, frankly, I’m sick of defending her behavior. I can only roll my eyes at her name-dropping for so long. Descriptive prefixes and suffixes can be combined in only so many ways before they lose their luster.

Eventually, I have to call it what it is. Art, you’re a tad snobby and I think it’s time for me to move on.

No sooner had I come to this conclusion that I went to the new Modern Wing of the Art Institute (of Chicago, for my Windy-less City friends). I understand that it may seem a bit curious that I deem myself “over” art but went to check out the ‘tute’s new addition. Don’t worry about that. More importantly, something unexpected happened to me while there…and it’s not what you’re thinking. It wasn’t some sort of celestial epiphany that proved that I do, in fact, love art. Sure, the interior was impressive. Yes, the collection was something to write home about. The significance of my visit to the Modern Wing, however, was that the admission was free.

If you’ve been to any museum on the day of the week that it is open to the public for free, you understand what I speak of…well, sort of. Follow me on this little math problem:

    New museum wing
+ Free admission
+ Memorial Day weekend
    Torturous Trifecta

Having lived in some of the country’s greatest and most popular cities over the last few years, I’ve come to terms with many of the side effects of tourism. It is, after all, a necessary evil. Being the trooper that I am, I offer directions when asked, I pass slow walkers with tact, and I overlook the notorious fashion faux pas fancied by domestic travelers. I’m accustomed to sharing the cities in which I live.

The Modern Wing presented me with out-of-towners unlike those I’ve encountered in the past, however. The space was to the brink of its capacity not just with tourists, but with very opinionated tourists. Keep in mind that—regardless of my current attitude towards art—I kind of, in some ways, know a little about her. I absorbed a few keywords over my six years immersed in her world. Moreover, when I don’t know something, I keep my mouth shut (which, for the record, is quite often and true about many things in my life). Apparently tourists don’t adhere to the same principles.

After 30-45 minutes of claustrophobically listening to women discussing Cy Twombly’s palette in terms of the color they just painted their guest bedroom and a man tell his wife he’s quitting his job and becoming a “splatter painter” (because, of course, he could make art like that), I had to leave. I believe I only saw about half of what the Modern Wing houses, but cut my losses and headed for the hills (and by ‘the hills’, I mean a cocktail).

For someone who had declared the end of his love affair with art, I was truly bothered by my Modern Wing experience. But why? Why should I care? In all honesty, I had gone on the final day of free admission to save myself the embarrassment of being denied the use of my (expired) student ID. $18 is no cheap price tag, after all. The irony is that I would have paid any admission fee to thin out the crowd with which I shared the experience.

Here I was, shying away from art because of the elitism of its associated world while experiencing the same kind of artistic supremacy over the general public. It was (and still is) hard to wrap my head around. Hypocritical? Maybe so. Regrettable? I’m not sure.

Among my motivations for studying art in the first place was a desire to help show everyone that art is significant, relevant, and powerful. When accompanied by a little understanding, its mass consumption is surely possible; when mobbed by the masses, though, its integrity seems diminished.

As rocky as my relationship with art has been (and still is), she is one classy broad and I’ll defend her until the end. Like an old relationship, I don’t want to let art go only to see her end up in the arms of someone who won’t treat her well. $18 isn’t cheap, but it certainly doesn’t buy anyone the right to smack my ol’ girl around a little bit. She deserves better than that. After all, there was a reason why art and I were together for so long and she’ll always have a place in my heart. And that counts for something. So, until you get to know her, please refrain from exerting too harsh a judgment. There’s more to life than looks alone and, at the end of the day, there’s no harm in admitting that you simply haven’t gotten to know her yet.

After mentioning, in passing, what I thought was an empty threat, she did it.  My co-worker, Megan, deleted her facebook account.  With the ease of a login and a few mouse clicks, her world of pictures, witty status updates, and a few hundred friends were victim of her self-induced, virtual apocalypse.

“Wow, does that take balls” I thought. 

I won’t lie—my infatuation with facebook surpassed all longevity expectations by about six weeks.  What I anticipated being a two week honeymoon of finding old friends, dodging unwanted friend requests and stalking ex-boyfriends’ pictures (for signs of life-after-Justin, of course) turned into a two month compulsion to know what acquaintances were doing at that exact moment.  While it was fun, in hindsight(-ish) it was also disturbing. 

[Note: the use of “-ish” reflects the fact that I’m still in the process of pulling myself out of the facebook haze.]

Megan’s ability to disappear from the social media matrix resonated with me.  Is the facebook-Houdini the new wave?  Am I behind the curve on this one?  I’m definitely not as into it as I was at first, but should I abandon it altogether?

I have a compulsion involving my iPod that somewhat correlates to this sentiment.  I cannot let a song end on its own.  When a song nears what I know to be its end, I quickly skip to the next song.  Maybe I should speak to a professional about this behavior, but it makes perfect sense in my mind:  why stand by passively when I know the end is near?  I’m going to do something about it, damn it!  That said, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the end to a Kings of Leon song…for all I know they all end with a marching band or a barbershop quartet.  

This behavior even crosses over into my social life.  I have compulsion involving social gatherings, whether a house party or night at the bars.  I must be among the first to leave.  Again, this makes perfect sense in my mind:  why wait for the night to die down when I can depart while things are still fun?  I tell myself it’s because I like the memory of the evening at its best, but am beginning to put two and two together…

I have a total fear of being the last-to-know or the last-to-go.  Perhaps it’s because I’ve heard that Del Amitri song one too many times.  More realistically, it probably stems from some sort of douche-fearing issue.  When Megan ditched her facebook account, it made me think that maybe my cooled-down feelings toward social media were an understatement.  If facebook is lame, will I be the last to know? 

Inevitably, facebook will follow myspace’s lead and become antiquated.  There’s no question about it.  Knowing this makes it incredibly hard to not immediately cut-and-run, but I remind myself that there’s plenty of time for that (not to mention personal precedent).  In quelling my fear of becoming integrated into something with a shelf-life, I’m optimistic that this is symbolic of things to come.  After all, the best things in life aren’t just free, they’re also fleeting.

I have never looked good in accessories.  Hats, sunglasses, scarves, whatever—none of them ever look good on me.  The best testament to this truth comes when I communicate my body’s accessory incompatibility to friends.  It usually occurs in a retail environment, when said friends will dismiss my generalization and say “just try it on.”  Inevitably, there is a “yeah, it doesn’t look right” to follow.

Much like my nemesis—the gym class lay-up—I’ve come to terms with this, yet another of my physical limitations.  The sooner that I accept my accessory-less life, the sooner I can focus on more important, unadorned matters.  It’s a humbling day when you realize your face has ruined any chance of looking good in a snow cap (the hat, not the candy), but it’s a horrible day when you come to this realization at the onset of a Chicago winter (known to the rest of the world as September). 

Winter is but one of the seasons affected by my aversion to accessories.  There’s also the summertime.  My face supports sunglasses about as well as it expresses insincere emotions—not so effectively.  I believe that this conflict is grounded in the way sunglasses frame the nose, which could be claimed as my…umm…strongest feature?  It’s unfortunate, really.  While everyone else looks so sporty, summery, and stylish in their shades, my appearance reverts to my awkward years (also known as grades 6-12). 

And then it happened. 

I had just finished a bartending shift late one Saturday night when, while in the office area changing out of my funk-covered shirt, I spotted something in the lost & found area.  To offer some perspective, lost & founds in bars aren’t like those in your grammar school days.  They’re more like consignment-meets-pawn shop. There are umbrellas, gloves, and scarves, of course.  But there are also desirable and wildly entertaining things.  Like cameras.  With pictures.  With naughty pictures. And shoes.  Single shoes. Who leaves a bar with only one shoe!? 

For those with some patience (rule of thumb: you have to give the owner at least two weeks to claim his/her loss) and a fearlessness of lice, you can find some pretty nice things in the lost & found.  After all, people tend to get somewhat decked out before heading to bars on a Saturday night. 

Perhaps because of both my impatience and fear of lice, I have never gravitated toward the lost & found.  No judgment on those who do, but I can’t imagine being called out in public for wearing someone’s cardigan that they left at my place of employment three weeks earlier.  What would I say?  “Oops!”  But my Saturday late-night discovery proved to be different. 

It was a pair of Ray-Bans.  Now I know that in today’s world of designer names and associated status, Ray-Bans are likely the Douche McDouchenstein brand of sunglasses to sport.  Well, I’m not that kind of gay.  I can barely dress myself.  I stick to solid colors to protect myself from bad fashion decisions and (luckily?) can’t accessorize out of a legitimate genetic condition.  So Ray-Bans are still cool in my book.  And, to top it off, my dad bought me a pair of Ray-Bans for my 10^th birthday, which I’ll never forget.  They cost $70, which—in my 10 years on earth—was the most expensive thing I had ever owned.  So for me, Ray-Bans are immortal. 

Even more, these Ray-Bans looked good on me.  Yes, on me—Mr. Do-Not-Accessorize.  The delicate silver frame, aviator (without trying too hard to be aviator) style, and perfectly placed nose pads seemed as though they were crafted for my mug and my mug alone.  I was meant to possess this pair of sunglasses.  Not only were they in perfect condition, but they were “lost” within the protection of their case.  It was a complete find.  It was destiny. 

The custody battle that ensued lasted over a year.  I started slowly, by dropping hints to management about my interest in the Ray-Bans.  I would occasionally inquire about their status.  Eventually, I laid my verbal claim to them.  Not sure whether the judgment would land in my favor, I began preparing myself for the possibility of life without the Ray-Bans.  I even watched Kramer vs. Kramer, just in case it got ugly. 

Twelve excruciating months after my initial rendezvous with the sunglasses, on another late Saturday night, the keeper of the lost & found said, out of nowhere, “just take ‘em.”  It was like Christmas morning.  Well, more like Christmas morning in Appalachia, where you finally get the gifts you’d put on layaway at Kmart 8 months prior and made payments of less than $20 here and there, when money permitted.  It was like that.  I was one happy Appalachian. 

The Ray-Bans and I have been inseparable ever since.  Well, weather permitting.  I treat them better than if I had bought them myself, which I find the most interesting part of it all.  A pair of sunglasses that found its way into my life has become one of my favorite possessions (in a completely materialistic sense).  If I had purchased the same pair of Ray-Bans, I would undoubtedly like them, but as much as these?  I somehow doubt it.  It’s here where a pair of sunglasses become more than just an accessory. 

Someone else’s loss made my unexpected ability to support an accessory possible.  More importantly, their loss sparked my excitement, nostalgia, and desire.  All the while, they are inevitably cursing themselves for leaving their Ray-Bans at a bar.  I can’t help but wonder if the “loser’s” frustration would be eased by knowing the joy his loss brought a total stranger. 

Probably not, but it makes me wonder. 

Leave it to me to find some damn-relevant parallels to be made with my Ray-Bans, but I do.  On the Saturday night that they entered my life, I wasn’t in the market for sunglasses…but I knew they were worth fighting for.  On top of it all, my ultimate victory in obtaining them made me value them far beyond their retail cost.  While it wasn’t a likely time or place to find the perfect pair of sunglasses, they were none the less perfect. 

Catch my drift?

I’m not sure if it’s healthy or sad to realize that for every wonderful pair of “Ray-Bans” we find, fight for, and fall in love with, there is always someone else out there mourning their loss.  Maybe it’s both.  But it works in both directions, right?  “Sunglasses” that we lose along the way give others the joy of finding these treasures.  When I think about the great “sunglasses” I’ve lost or let go of, it’s greatly comforting to consider that my loss has been someone else’s gain, which is certainly true. 

In the long run, then, the only losers in lost & found are impatient and fearful of lice.

Last week, I had to run an errand last required me to go downtown.  Not just downtown, but City Hall. 

I sincerely believe that every Chicagoan—at some point in his or her tenure in the city—should be required to obtain a permit, pay a property tax bill, or perform some other seemingly pedestrian task at a city or county office.  It’s The Amazing Race meets Blind Date.  Street smarts, a loose moral compass and some old-fashioned good luck are not only mandatory, but your only hope.  On this trip I was only there to drop something off, however.  Talk about luck. 

Upon entering the marble-clad, vaulted lobby I was immediately hypnotized by an easel placed in the dead center of the sprawling interior.  It held a white sign with simple, black letters.  They were all capitals.  It read: 

HAND WASHING SAVES LIVES.

Who knew, for all these years, that I was saving lives every time I pee?  Not to mention riding public transportation, applying hair product and picking up dog poop.  If this sign is correct, my hygiene habits make me a goddamn hero.  While I’m still trying to figure out where exactly my selflessness falls, but I’m pretty sure it’s along the same lines as the family that hid Anne Frank…or maybe a conductor along the Underground Railroad.  Somewhere in that range for sure.   

After spreading City Hall’s H1 N1 sensationalized advertising via a text message or two, I continued on with my delivery with—to my surprise—little-to-no complication.   Fortunate for me, the ease of this City Hall outing allowed me to save my loose moral compass for the weekend ahead. 

When I returned to elevator on my way out of the building, I instinctively pressed the button next to ‘1’.  First floor, please.  With no one else in the elevator car with me (which would have caused me to focus on holding my breath to avoid catching the wrath of the swine) I focused on the floor numbers and their corresponding buttons.  That’s when I noticed that the ‘1’ had a star next to it. 

From left to right, it “read”:  [Star.]  1.  [Button.]

Although I’ve likely been in thousands of elevators in the course of my life (oh, if those elevator cars could talk…), I had never really noticed the use of the star.  There is no doubt that the star is necessary.  In some buildings, the main floor is ‘G’ in elevator talk (for ground).  In others, the first floor (‘1’) is the default level.  Once ‘B’ (basement), ‘L’ (lobby), and ‘M’ (mezzanine) are factored in, anything but a designating star would be catastrophic.  Who knows…perhaps such a mix-up is why Natalie Halloway is still missing.  At this very minute she could be malnourished and disoriented trying to find her way out of her Aruba hotel.  Perhaps there was no star telling her what floor to exit from.  [I’m going to hell.  I get it.]

 When I had “instinctively” pressed the elevator button that corresponded with ‘1’, the star was likely the reason.  I don’t recall looking at my options before deciding. 

 Star?  Done. 

 Then it dawned on me.  This is why so many people have stars tattooed on their bodies.  [Side note:  Isn’t it great how you started out reading about Swine Flu and are now hearing about the societal over-saturation of star tattoos?  Buckle up, my friend, and come along for the ride…]  Have you noticed this phenomenon as much as I have?  Outlined 5-point stars, often located on inner forearms are seemingly everywhere these days.  I like stars and all, but I’m somewhat perplexed by how much others (evidently) like stars as well.  My City Hall elevator experience, however, shed some much-needed light onto the proliferation of the star tattoo.  Hear me out.

The ubiquitous elevator star is meant to communicate a sense of place.  It says “If you’re not sure where you’re going, chances are you should go here”.  And the star is right.  In an elevator going up, you should already know where you’re going.  Whether out of routine or from a building directory in the lobby, the ascending elevator destination is (or should be) known.  The way back isn’t always so clear, though.  It seems safe to assume that retracing your path will lead you back to square one, but what happens when you aren’t aware of where you started from?  That’s where the star’s job begins.  The star is the fixed point that you can count on to find your way back.  The star grounds. 

It’s logical that the star, as a symbol, denotes stability.  Mariners throughout the ages used the North Star to navigate the seas.  Religions have relied upon the zodiac for meaning and our own modern calendar derives from celestial cycles.  Orientation, faith and measurement—three causes/effects of stability.  It makes sense that the star (as a symbol) was the winner of this contest.  I can’t imagine the trapezoid or the isosceles triangle taking home the crown. 

So my thought—while admittedly just a theory—is that the star tattoo is to its owner as it is to an elevator.  It provides direction and guidance (on your forearm, no less!).  Sounds appealing, doesn’t it?  There would be few things in life more beneficial than a steadfast indicator of where to go and what to do.  Hence the longevity of the Magic 8 Ball, I suppose.  But if I truly believed this, I’d be choosing the color of my star as I write this.  But I don’t buy it.  It’s just a symbol.  It works in very literal ways and settings, such as in elevators, but life isn’t linear like an elevator.  Where we begin isn’t always where we want to or should end up.  Even more, if we could venture out from immobile stake in the ground with the ever-present option to return, should we?  It’s akin to knowing when we will die.  There’s an obvious temptation there, but at a price.  The price is the adventure.   

As an adventure-lover, I’m going to pass on the star tattoo.  Yet, I’m not judging them and would prefer that elevator manufacturers continue to include stars for the convenience of all of us.  At the end of the day, I enjoy not always knowing the right decision to make or the right direction to turn.  I do enjoy knowing, however, that hand washing saves lives.

I was riding the train on the way to work this morning when I overheard two girls, one with a suitcase in-tow, mention the phrase ‘Middle Eastern’ in their conversation. 

Middle Eastern.  It got me thinking.

My thoughts weren’t those of Islam, war, terrorism, or anything geo-political.  I could, however, understand if you thought that’s where my mind would lead, especially after I referenced her accompanying suitcase, implying travel, which leads to airport security, terrorism, 9/11, and the like.  ‘Middle Eastern’ didn’t resonate with me in those terms and I’m pretty sure that it’s politically incorrect for you to have thought so, but that’s a fine line that I never really know how to navigate.  Someone should write a guide to etiquette on the matter and then send me a copy.  I’ll even pay the postage.

Middle.  Eastern. 

The combination of words made me think about the region of the world that it referenced.  There’s Iraq and Iran…and then Israel and Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Jordan, too, I think.  It’s definitely not the West, but not as far east as Asia.  It’s in the middle, as the name clearly expresses.  You’re welcome for that geography lesson, by the way. 

My point, however, is that there is a term to define a region that already has names (i.e. countries).  I know, I know…call me Captain Obvious, but I’m going somewhere with this, I assure you. 

In thinking about the way that names and titles divide, subdivide, encompass and exclude caused me to become critically aware of how pervasive this practice is.  Recently, my job took me to a meeting of small business owners in a part of Chicago that is technically known as Lakeview.  While Lakeview is a rather large neighborhood with many smaller, subdivided areas within it (individually named with suffixes like  –ville, corridor, etc.), these businesses don’t land within one such cutely-named area.  They’re just in Lakeview, and that’s a rather vague descriptor for Chicagoans.  Because of this, one of the group’s objectives was to create a name for their small section of Lakeview.  It proved (and has proven) to be no small task.  With the combination of an appealing descriptor for their niche and the right marketing/branding, however, they believe that neighborhood prosperity will inevitably follow. 

I don’t know which is more eye-opening to me:  the equation of titling with succeeding or my belief that they may be right.

While my original thinking dealt with geographical naming, these principles seem to permeate more areas of life than not.  Think, for instance, of how powerful career titles are.  Coordinator, Manager, Director.  There is a definite hierarchy with tangible consequences:  power, income, and image, to name a few. 

In my first-hand experience as a freelance art director/copy writer/man-of-mystery, I have found it extremely difficult to explain to people what I do.  Why?  I lacked a singular title.  I did a lot of things.  These days, I work a lovely non-profit job and earn about half of what I used to; however, people seem to have more respect for my work because I have a TITLE.  It’s rather amazing, isn’t it?  Evidence supports that we understand the world around us by naming it.  We like understanding things.  It means that we (think we) can control them. 

I’m fairly certain that there are scholars who have, some time ago, realized this.  I’m thinking it may be called Structuralism, but I have a history of creating convenient memories of reading about topics that I really only saw as questions on Jeopardy.  What can I say?  Alex Tribec narrates my interior monologue. 

Structuralism, if I recall it correctly, identifies the ‘this-or-that’ system that underlies our naming tendencies.  It is a black and white lens to understand the world.  Then post-structuralism came along, which says that it’s not as simple as black and white; there are many shades of gray out there!  [At this point I would like to apologize to all of my graduate school professors for butchering this scholastic information.  I promise you that I did, indeed, pay attention in class.  I even read some, too.  At the end of the day, however, grad school taught me to think, act, and speak more confidently.  Other than that…well, that’s about it actually.  Thanks for the self-esteem boost.]  Back to shades of gray.  I think most of us would agree that the world is, in fact, much more nuanced than it is definitive. 

But gradations don’t always appease us.  Think about relationships.  Having found my way back into the dating pool has shown me that most people want to know where things stand.  Maybe not right off the bat, but there eventually comes the question of “are we or aren’t we?”  It’s a pretty black-or-white question.  In fact, I’m suspicious of those who don’t want/need to know where things stand in relationships.  It’s creepy and totally throws off my game, which I have no tolerance for.  We like to know what “things” are, even if their name has yet to be determined (“are we or aren’t we what?”). 

So what am I supposed to do with all of this?  The difficulty is that in some arenas, titles frustrate while in others, they pacify.  Ideally, I would like to be sans titles.  They just seem so limiting.  While there are likely many, many titles that would suit me (just ask my exes…I’m sure they have a few for me), any one title seems to disregard the validity of all the others.  On the flip side, I would like a titled relationship with a significant other.  Does this mean that I identify myself more through the relationships I keep than through the work that I do (or bridges I have burned)?  I’m okay with that…I think.  Or does it mean I’m hypocritically romantic?  I’m okay with that, too…I think. 

So this is it.  I vow to be more aware of the titles I place on things. Or refuse to place on things. And I will be more sensitive to the impact of both approaches on myself and others.  I’m not one to believe that this is a black-or-white, this-or-that kind of world and my method of naming (or not naming) things should reflect this. 

Titles are neither here nor there.  They’re somewhere in the middle.  Just like the Middle East.